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I believe that there is place where all dreams go to live for ever. Not the kind that your mind makes up in your sleep, but the kind that keep you up at night. The dreams you really believe in. The ones you make up in the shower and smile about on your morning runs. You know what I am talking about - the kind of dreams that are too special , too good for real life. I believe that all those dreams go to a place where they exist in perfection and in perpetuity.Long after we forget all about them, they live on, to come upon us , unexpectedly, sometimes taking our breath away and at others, just bringing a smile. A few other times, they bring with them an unexpected longing for what might have been.

All the what-ifs, what-could-have-beens, and if-onlys, get tucked away and we live together , you and I , in a world far too beautiful for reality in that place where all dreams go to live. I believe this to be true.

"In the dark places in people's souls, and twisting by lanes of minds. In the silences in speech and commas in sentences. In the boldest lines of black, and deepest shades of red. Sometimes, it is even in the ephemeral glances and fleeting caresses. The undercurrents of lives and the un-happenings of things. Do not look for words, for words are capricious and change. They are intentional and intent can be suspect. Look closer, look deeper. When you know , you know , and when you know , you run"

Oh baby , but you are a wall , solid and sound
Darling, darling your feet are roots planted in the ground -
going deep, deep, deep.
eyes, blues eyes, pools of serenity, ever asleep
Ever there, forever here ,standing by me every hour
Baby, you need a flower ,so I will be a wallflower.

But think for a bit,
Just for a minute -

Oh love, if you went a little crazy and stirred up a storm,
I can be an eagle and take to the air
Darling if you were the big blue ocean
I could be a corsair.
Oh love, be as warm as a spring shower
Baby, be flawed just enough, so I would never be a wallflower.

"Instead of Rome, We should have gone to Rio. You know how much I hate the cold. It makes me bad tempered and irritable. My feet were cold the whole time. Rome was a bad idea in December, what were we thinking?"

"Why does it matter now?"

"Life is made of memories, and we would have made great ones in Rio. Better than the ones we made in Rome"

"Life is made of feelings too and back then, I loved you too much to care if your feet were cold all the time, All I wanted to do was look deep into your eyes and tell you how much I loved you"

"You said - 'back then' "

"Yes, I said 'back then' "

"hmm"

"Sill girl! I mean - now, there are other things that I want to do besides just declare my affections for you"

she chuckled, "You have the heart of a wanderer.You always had lists - places to go , things to do, people to meet, stories to make."

"Yes,this story will be the best of all"

She had that hard look in her eyes, the one he hated. He knew then , that she had made up her mind.

She said, "Stories without me in them, places without me next to you."

"Life is also made of hard decisions. This is one such for me, I hope you know that"

She looked up, deep into his eyes. "Life is made of sacrifices too, besides, there is the whole love thing."

"Yes, there is the love thing. And the sacrifice thing. For 20 years I sacrificed everything else for love, maybe it's time to sacrifice love for everything else."

She came to me in the middle of winter at beginning of a white weekend. I remember the warmth of my morning coffee on that Saturday. I remember looking out the window and thinking how the world had turned white and black generously sprinkled with shades of grey. I remember looking towards the east, at the ominously grey skies and trying to find the sun hoping it would warm my cheeks. It took me a while, but when I did find it, the sun was hardly more than a gentle lamp in the sky.

She came unexpectedly. I remember the pounding in my ears and the sound of my breath. Was that really my heart? Most of all, I remember her eyes. They were a deep green , like a tiny bit of spring in the middle of winter. Sometimes, when I looked closely enough, I thought I saw specks of gold in them. She was my own little bundle of warmth. And joy, oh-so-much-joy!

The doctors said that there was something wrong with her. She did not respond fast enough, but I knew that there was something special about her and that they didn't understand. She didn't think like everyone else. She was a child of spring born in the middle of winter, her mind belonged with colours and music.Her thought did not follow linear steps of logic but followed her own inner rhythm. She needed her own special world, where spring lasted for ever. I knew it before they said it, of course, she did not belong here, with us. She had to go, I knew.

But I had endless days of spring while I had her.

Together we discovered that the world was made of interesting patterns and secret laws. There was an Underthing full of small thingammables which scurried all day and sometimes deep into the night to keep the middle stable. The middle was pushed into place by the beautiful blue Overthing that was filled with white fluff that attracted winged thwangs, which looked for hidden gold all the time. We had to eat apples to discover hidden wishes and drink our milk everyday because it filled up our bones. Sleep was good because, it helped the night fairies spread magic dust on the flowers.

Winter melted into spring with flowing colours and fresh blossoms everywhere. Soon summer followed with walks in the park and hot splashes in the pool. Autumn was a canvas of yellows and oranges which my Zola told me were because of the sun sending some of his warmth to the earth to prepare her for the upcoming winter. Soon all seasons blurred into long walks and laughter, hot cookies fresh from the oven,dips in the lake and made-up stories about numbers that just wouldn't stay put on paper! As is the nature of things, time did fly by, we must have had a lot of fun.

On another winter day, in another time, with another storm building up in the east and suffocating the early morning sun, I look out the window again and wait for spring. For, in spring, I remember my Zola best.

20 minutes. To build it up, to grind it to dust. To make it up, to break it down. To run up and reach, to crash and burn. Weave a wreath of magical words, shatter a cherished dream with harsh reality. Make or break.

I believe that all moments in a desert are the same. The light tricks you into thinking that time has passed. A breath, a blink,all tricks of your mind. Everything stops. The dunes shift,your soul withers. The sand flows over your body endlessly. You almost don't notice that it scorches. It burns. The desert is a dangerous place. It is because all moments are the same in a desert.